Saturday, December 31, 2016

George had been definite. He could not make it make it back to the
States for Christmas.

“You can’t ask for the holiday off?” I’d asked. Since George hadn’t been
home in four years, I thought maybe he could reasonably make that request--and
that it might even get a thumbs up from Corporate. Or whatever code name they
used for CIA London. But nope. George
declined to even ask.

Which sort of...hurt. We hadn’t seen each other since Merry Old E., and
that had been five months ago.

Half a year. If we rounded up. Which is the rule in life
as in math. Round up.

Was this more of George testing me, of me needing to
prove I was really, honestly invested? Or was it George losing interest?

Coz it felt like George losing interest.

A couple of times I even thought I should ask him
outright. Dude,
are we through and you just don’t want to break my heart or something?

In my place, George would have asked outright. And if I
asked outright, he’d tell me.

But I didn’t ask. I just kept hoping I was wrong. I
needed something to hang onto, and poor George was it.

The deal I’d made with my parents was that I’d do a
year’s apprenticeship with my dad in his architectural firm while I figured out
where I was going to go to film school--assuming I could get in anywhere.

I couldget in somewhere as it turned out. I could get in LFS. The LondonFilmSchool. I’d
applied for the following year. And I’d been accepted.

But was I going? I felt like it kind of depended on George.
He hadn’t asked and I hadn’t told him.

My parents, of course, believed I’d change my mind about
the whole film school thing. Also the whole being gay thing, which they
attributed to ongoing upset over getting dumped by Amy and being confused and
lost and generally…young. They figured I had turned to George because of timing
and trauma.

It’s was the first time I ever heard that fighting bad
guys could make you gay, but okay. Interesting take on law enforcement. Anyway,
I had my stuff to work through and they had theirs.

It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought working for my dad. I
didn’t hate architecture. Not at all. Architecture is a very cool gig,
as a matter of fact. It just wasn’t how I wanted to spend my life. But, as
everyone I talked to pointed out, there were worse ways to spend your life, and
not everybody got to do what they loved for a living. That was the point of
having a hobby.

My dad said the only thing that would really disappoint
him was if I deliberately chose something I didn’t want for my future because I
was afraid to talk to him. Which was a pretty solid 9.9 on the Dad Scale,
grading from 1 (deadbeat dad) to 10
(rescues-kid-who-is-not-even-his-own-from-burning-building dad). Very nearly
heroic, given how long he’d been planning on me joining the family firm.

So the hold-up was not my parents. The hold-up was
George.

And then very casually my mom mentioned that Mrs. Sorocco
had said that George was coming home
for Christmas.

News to me.

And that sort of hurt too. But was also exciting because…George.
On the same continent at the same time. We might talk. We might do something
besides talk.

“So you are coming home for Christmas?” I asked
George the next time we talked.

He swore and my heart sank. But then he said gruffly, “Damn
it. I wanted that to be a surprise.”

“It is. I didn’t think there was a chance.”

“No. Well…it’s not like I don’t have a stake in this
too.”

I wasn’t exactly sure
what that meant, but it was probably the most promising thing he’d said yet.
About anything.

That was Christmas Eve.

I went to bed that night trying to maintain in
the face of my excitement that Santa was bringing me George.

Or sort of. Because George literally arrived around two o’clock on Christmas day, and was whisked away into the family fortress.
There was no opportunity for even a brush pass or whatever the hell the spy
term was for a chaste hug hello. George waved at my window on his way into Sorocco HQ, and I waved forlornly back.The Berlin Wall couldn’t have seemed more insurmountable in those five
minutes than Mr. Sorocco’s tidy boxwood hedge. The
geometric squares of snow-covered lawn and shovelled driveway in front of our
separate embassies could have been no fly zones.

So George had dinner at his house and I had dinner at my house.

Diplomacy?
Détente? Defection? I was more confused than ever as I tried to choke down turkey and gravy
and stuffing.

“More stuffing?” my mom asked when I’d finally cleared my plate.

I almost asked if she was being ironic, but the front doorbell rang, and
I practically knocked my chair over answering it.

George stood on the stoop, framed in twinkling lights and the two
potted, beribboned juniper shrubs. The Spy Who Wasn’t Sure if He Wanted to Come
in From the Cold. He wore a dark overcoat and his most severe horn-rim specs. Flakes
of snow melted into his neatly combed hair. He looked handsome and serious in a
sorry-to-have-to-revoke-your-passport kind of way.

“Hello, Jeffer--”

I heard his oof as I knocked the
wind out of him with my hello hug. Possibly more of a hello tackle.

“God,
George. I can’t believe you’re here.” Not dignified, I
know. But sincere.

“Hey,” he said in a very different tone of voice. His arms locked around
me and he hugged me back. Hugged me the way you’d expect to be hugged after you
return from deep space exploration. “Hey,” he said again.

“I didn’t think you were ever going to get here.” I wasn’t just talking
about arriving for Christmas, and I think he knew it because when I raised my
head, he kissed me.

He kissed me like he’d thought he was never going to get there either,
and it made up for a lot.

When we broke for air, he drew me out onto the step, pulled shut the
door, and led me around the house and out to the backyard and up into the tree
house.

My teeth were chattering--I hadn’t had time to stop for my jacket--and
George took off his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, and then wrapped
his arm around me for good measure.

“Poor old Jefferson. Has it been tough?” he asked
sympathetically.

“It’s been h-hell,” I replied, snuggling closer. “But not because of my
family or friends or anything. That’s been…weird, but mostly okay. A lot of it
has been good. Better than I expected.”

He kissed the top of my head--like he was kissing my five year old
self--and I said, “George, don’t.”

Behind the severe glasses, his eyes were guarded.

“You’ve got to listen to me,” I said. “Because this is unfair to both of
us, and you’re going to wreck any chance we might have.”

That expression I knew
well. The lordly George of my teens. The George who firmly believed he knew
best. Knew everything.

Well, he didn’t. Not always.

I headed him off with a quick, “No, listen, George. I know you’re doing
what you think is best for both of us. You don’t want to hurt me and you don’t
want to get hurt again. I get all that. But there is no insurance policy for this.
Maybe it’ll work out for us and maybe it won’t, but it sure as hell won’t work
out if we don’t try.”

He opened his mouth again, but I kept talking.

“And this…cooling off period or whatever it’s supposed to be isn’t
realistic anyway. If this is supposed to be for my sake, then it really doesn’t
make sense because you’ve set up a scenario where I can’t move on. Because I’m
still waiting for you.”

“You’re not supposed to be waiting for me!”

“But I am, George.” I couldn’t help the tears that sprang to my eyes.
“Because I love you. You. And until I know for sure it
won’t work, of course I’m waiting for you,
of course I’m waiting for this
stupid, ridiculous, fucking holding pattern to be over!”

“Jefferson.” He sounded soft and regretful.

“If you know for sure it’s not going to work, that you don’t feel enough
for me to really try, then tell me.”

“I don’t,” he broke in.

My heart stopped. I stared at him.

His face twisted and he said, “No, I mean I don’t think that. I would
tell you if I thought that. I…want it to work. I want it to be right. But
wanting it won’t make it true.”

“Yeah, but it’s a start.” I had to wipe my face. I was so cold, I hadn’t
even felt the tears falling until I was tasting them. “I don’t know why I ever
agreed to this because it’s the worst idea ever. It’s completely illogical. The
only way we’re ever going to know if it might work out for us is if we actually
try.”

He was silent.

“We’ve already put in half of the year you wanted.”

“Five months.”

“Close enough for government work.”

His head bobbed, acknowledging a point.

“I can’t take it, George.” I just didn’t have it in me to pretend
anymore. No more of the cheerful, optimistic, adulting Jefferson of the last five
months worth of phone calls. I could hear the weariness in my voice, and I
think he could too. “If it’s a test, then I fail. I’m sorry. I just feel like
you’re coming up with excuses not to be with me.”

“I didn’t know you felt like this,” he said finally.

I said a little bitterly, “You didn’t want to know.”

He seemed to be thinking that over. “That’s not true,” he said finally. Ever
the intelligence analyst.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” I said. “Except that I’m done. And if
anyone ought to understand that people aren’t predictable, it’s a spy, George.”

He gave a funny, wry little laugh. “Maybe you have a point.”

I sighed and rested my head on his shoulder. I could feel him thinking.
I could practically hear the gears turning.

“Okay then,” he said finally. “How do you see this working?”

“I want to move to London and start LFS next year. Is that what you
want?”

“Yes.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t want to live together that’s okay, but I would like to--”

“I would like to try living together,” he said.

I raised my head to stare at him. “Well, George, if you were going to
give in so easily what have we been waiting for all these months?”

He was smiling. A sort of silly, sort of self-conscious smile that
looked an awful lot like the George I’d used to know once upon a time. Before
he became a secret agent and learned to hide everything he felt. Maybe even
from himself.

He said, “I think maybe…this. Maybe for you to see that I was always going
to give in the first time you asked--and really meant it.”

I was humming along with Rufus Wainwright performing Cohen’s
“Hallelujah,” as I ran up the stairs to Jake’s office.

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t think you were coming back this
afternoon.”

I stopped in the doorway. Jake stood at the window that overlooked
the alley behind the building. I couldn’t see his face, but the something about
the set of his shoulders silenced me. Took my breath away, in fact.

It wasn’t defeat exactly. But I got a sense of…weariness that
went beyond the physical.

“Jake?”

He tensed, as though he hadn’t heard me. As though his mind
was a million miles away.

“Yep?”

That glimpse of his eyes froze my heart for a second or two.

He sounded brusque, but that was because…because guys like
Jake did not cry. Not when they lost jobs they loved. Not when their marriages
broke up. Not when their families wouldn’t talk to them.

Maybe he’d cried when Kate lost the baby. He’d never said.

I’d never ask.

He was not crying. His eyes were a little red. It could even
be allergies. He probably was genuinely…weary.

Or it could be the result of meeting Kate today. Of course
he would feel regret. Wish he’d made different choices. Maybe he was comparing
the might-have-beens against the what-he-was-left-withs.

“Everything okay?” I could hear the mix of wariness and worry
in my voice.

His smile was twisted, but some of the bleakness in his eyes
faded. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

He walked toward me, still smiling that crooked smile. I
didn’t realize I had left the doorway until I met him halfway.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

This morning we have another poem for you. This is by Margaret Avison, a new-to-me Canadian poet. For me this lovely work of imagery paints the gorgeous beginning of a mystery novel, but of course that was not Avison's intent. ;-)

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

So many warm and lovely holidays in this cold, cold month. I hope you've enjoyed at least one of them.

Thank you to the talented Johanna Ollila for today's adorable picture of Jake and Adrien's Christmas stockings, which we've made available for you to download and color at the bottom of this page right here (we recommend colored pencils for best results).

You could probably use some mindless relaxation about now, right?

For a little background on what inspired Johanna Ollila to create this particular picture, you might want to read or reread the holiday themed interview Flying High.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

Today's stunning offering comes from the multi-talented Catherine Dair (you may know her as the creator of those adorable Pip and Skip Pride bunnies).

I hope that wherever you are today is exactly where you want to be -- and that you spend most of the day with people you love and who love you. I hope your heart is full of peace and contentment and the certainty that there is more right with the world than wrong.

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Well, that sounds a little grim, and in keeping with the shadowy side of Christmas, I'm sharing another vintage cartoon.

Not in an effort to bring anyone down, but to remind you -- and myself -- to stick to the light, to treasure those moments of brightness and warmth and love. To be an agent of brightness and warmth and love not just through the remainder of the holiday season, but in the coming year. And all the years that follow.

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

I want to make sure everyone who won a giveaway has a chance to collect their winnings. :-)

Here's what we've got so far:

HOLIDAY GIVEAWAY LIST

THE CURSE OF THE BLUE SCARAB in print
Debby of the Pisco Sour
Neil Atkinson of the several drinks (love that White Lady!)
Verena with her flavored teas
Nancy Andrews
Merrick with the gingery champagne cocktail

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Today we're giving away a complete set of the Adrien English audio books -- narrated by Christopher Patton -- to one lucky viewer. Er, listener. This particular gift was donated by Kim in the Goodreads group, so thank you very, very much to Kim.

Share a thought on the Adrien English series in the comment section below to be eligible for the random selection process.

For a guy who’d had less sleep than me, he looked unfairly refreshed
and vital on a damp and drizzly Monday morning. He wore boots, jeans, a
tailored white shirt and a brown tweed blazer, which brought out the gold
glints in his hazel eyes. His blond hair was silvering at the temples and just
a fraction longer than he used to wear. He was still hard and fit, but he’d
lost that gaunt, haggard look he’d had six months ago when we’d met up again after
two years apart.

In fact, he looked healthy and relaxed. Like he’d really spent
the last few days on vacation instead of the family holiday from hell.

“Hey,” I said, by
way of greeting. I won’t say I actually fell into his arms, but I was pretty
happy to see him.

Hard to say—and it was a theory I planned on testing a lot
over the next forty years—but I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of kissing
Jake.

Even these quick perfunctory kisses—well, it had started out
quick and perfunctory, but the taste of him: that weirdly erotic blend of
coffee and breath mint; the smell of him: an even weirder erotic blend of
suitcase and Le Male aftershave; and the warm weight of his hand on my
shoulder, drawing me in close, closer…

Reluctantly, we parted lips.

“Jesus, I missed you.” He smiled into my eyes.

“Same here.”

“I got used to spending all day every day with you.”

I said regretfully, “If only it paid better.”

There was definitely a sparkle in his eyes. “Well, I might
have some good news on that front. Are you ready for lunch?”

“I think so. I hope so. Actually, why don’t we get a
coffee or something? I need to get out of here for a little while.”

True, I’d only been in there about five minutes.

His brows rose. He said, “Sure. You want to walk or you want
to take a drive?”

I grabbed my black overcoat. “Let’s walk.”

When we stepped outside the bookstore, the rain had softened
to a light, shimmering mist. More like holiday décor than actual wet. Christmas
is the only holiday I can think of where it continues to feel like
holiday-in-progress even the day after. Maybe because people were still bustling
around with heavy shopping bags, and the Eagles were plea-bargaining from
storefront speakers.

If not for Christmas, by New Year’s night…

Window displays were filled with fake snow and glittering
lights and toy trains and anthropomorphic stuffed animals drinking coffee and
showing off engagement rings. Who knew how much penguins relished that holiday bling?

Everyone who wasn’t trying to park or find their car was in
a festive mood. And it was contagious. As in, I needed to remember to take my
vitamin C when we got back.

“Funny how cities have their own smell,” Jake remarked. “London
just didn’t smell like Pasadena.”
He casually dropped his arm around my shoulders and I smiled at him.

It’s not like I needed the physical proof of PDAs, and
frankly Jake’s willingness to put his arm around me or hold my hand in public
meant as much to me as the actual act. But I can’t deny that warm weight on my
shoulders felt good. Right.

“Thanks again for going with me,” I said.

“Not like it was a big sacrifice. I like being with you. I
never figured on seeing London, so
that was actually kind of nice.”

And kind of exhausting. Or maybe that was more my take than
Jake’s. I’d been the one to push for coming home early.

“If we were to travel somewhere for a real vacation or…something,
where would you want to go?”

The arm around my shoulders jumped as he shrugged. “Never
thought about it. Kate always wanted to go to Italy.”

I glanced at him. His smile was a little wry, his expression
distant. He almost never talked about Kate or their marriage, and I understood
that this was out of loyalty to her. That loyalty was just one of the many things
I liked about him.

Monday, December 19, 2016

“Tell the story about how you two got together again,”
someone called from down the long, linen-covered table.

Who?

Marta? Angelique? I couldn’t tell who. There were always so
many people at this annual Christmas Eve luncheon. Over the years they had all
started to look--and sound--alike.

“It was twenty years
ago,” Ross began, and our guests settled down to be once more amused and
entertained by the master. Only Ross could make blackmail and attempted murder
sound like the meet-cute opening of a rom-com.

They all sipped their wine and listened and laughed in the
right places. Everybody loved the story. After all, the course of true love and
all that.

No one had gone to jail. No one had gotten hurt.

Well, maybe Anne Cassidy. Hard to know how seriously she’d
taken it. Still waters. Anyway, she was a decade under ground now.

Strange to think…

Ross had reached the climax of the story and was quoting me.
“‘You could kill me,’ Adam said, ‘And it wouldn’t hurt as much as watching you
marry someone you don’t love.’”

Awww, everyone
said, as they always did.

“I wish you wouldn’t tell that story,” I said that night.

Ross, wearing his red silk dressing gown and slippers, was
reading the New Yorker by the
fireplace. He glanced up, and smiled.

“It’s a great story.”

“I hate it.”

He laughed. At sixty he was still handsome, still debonair,
still charming…still the love of my life. And he always would be.

“Come here, you.” He laid aside the magazine, held out an
arm, and I joined him beside the hearth, leaning against his chair--at forty-plus I was a bit old for curling up on his lap. I rested my head on his
thigh. His fingers gently played with my hair.

He murmured, “There is nothing either good or bad, but
thinking makes it so.”

I closed my eyes. “Hamlet. Act 2. Scene 2.”

“Very good.” There was a smile in his voice. His fingers,
slim and dry and cool, sent little chills of pleasure over my scalp.

“We haven’t done so badly, have we? We’ve lasted longer than
any other couple we know. We’re certainly happier than any other couple we
know.”

I moved my head in assent. “Showfolk.”

He chuckled. “We’re
showfolk.”

The fire snapped and crackled. Ross was silent, and I
wondered if he was nodding off. When I turned my head, he was staring into the
fireplace. The flames threw shadows across his face.

“Do you ever regret--” I started softly.

But he smiled again and shook his head. “No. I don’t. None
of it.” His eyes shone in the firelight, studying me. “Do you?”

Today's giveaway is a signed copy of In From the Cold, the print collection of I Spy stories. I'll choose one random commenter from belooooow. Just share a heart-warming (or other part warming) memory or story with us! ﻿

Friday, December 16, 2016

I could hear them through the tall, white front door of the Colonial
farmhouse. All fifty three of them. Ding-donging away. Chiming out the hour in
ten long notes.

Maybe that’s what was taking him so long to come to the door. Maybe he
couldn’t hear me over the clocks. Or maybe it was the rain rattling on the
windows and roof--and the ragged leaves of the little palm tree plant I cradled
in my arms--that deafened him to my knock.

I knocked again and rang the doorbell for good measure. Where would he be
on Christmas morning? Hopefully nobody had wrung his scrawny neck while I’d
been away.

I laughed and kissed him. He closed his eyes and kissed me back, and the
oranges and

almonds rained down around our feet.

I don’t think he believed I'd be back.

Nah. He had to know. Maybe he thought when I did come back, it would be pack my
suitcase and grab my hat.

I don’t deny it crossed my mind as that train had clickity-clacked its
way over deserts and cornfields, through small towns and mountain ranges, over
the rivers and through the woods…

I liked California. I liked
the palm trees and the orange trees and the Technicolor blue of those always-sunny
skies. I liked the hustle and bustle of movie studios and doing business beside
a swimming pool. I liked the money to be made in California.

I liked the fact that nothing shocked people in Hollywood.
And that everybody but Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons minded their own
business.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

First the giveaway, because yes, there is one. We are giving away TWENTY audio codes today. Twenty randomly selected commenters will receive an audio download code so they can buy themselves a little holiday treat from my extensive (and still growing) audio backlist.

Oh! But that's not all.

Everybody gets a treat today because Coda 34 (you know the one) has been narrated by Chris Patton and it's available as a little free audio download.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Actually, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA is probably more to the point. Today we have something absolutely INSANE for you. Insane in a totally brilliant way. This one is definitely for the fans of the Adrien English series. If you're not fully familiar with the series and the characters of Jean and Ted Finch, you're probably not going to appreciate the manic genius of Penguins_United (AKA authors Andy Slayde & Ali Wilde).

The rest of you, grab your eggnog and settle in--oh! It won't work on your phone.You have to do this the old-fashioned way. LIKE ADRIEN.

Through a thick layer of fear and recent disappointment Oscar smelled
the feral scent of the mouse. It had been taunting him since he and Mistress
had arrived the day before and now sat somewhere in the wooden structure,
laughing at him, no doubt, and he just couldn't get past the obnoxious human in
front of him. If the silly man could just step aside to let him by, everything
would go nicely. But, no! The fool got it into his head that he would be
courageous and stand his ground.

Maybe if he swatted a little at the man's trousers he would move? No
such luck. In a misguided effort at bravery (should be called stupidity, really;
who had fangs and claws here?), the man grabbed a stool and raised it as if
that could ward Oscar off. If he hadn't been focused on the hunt, Oscar would
have been tempted to show him what's what.

The little rustle of fur and clicking of tiny claws on lacquered wood
made him bunch his hind legs for a powerful jump onto the bar.

And that, of course, brought another man to the scene. This one smelled
of valor, which was the worst case.
They tended to do stupid things. What did he think he'd achieve with his jacket
in his hands? Oscar growled in frustration. He was so close. He could almost
taste the delicious mouse flavor. Such a sweet little morsel, tender and
savoury…

With a mighty bang the side entrance door flew open.

“Oscar! Oscar! Oh, you bad, bad
kitty.”

From her
hiding place, the mouse watched as the big old kitty was dragged away. She
snickered, grabbed the cake crumb she had come for, and
hurried back home.

Monday, December 12, 2016

Another print book giveaway to go with Johanna Ollila's poignant and lovely coloring book page inspired by the 1940s story Snowball in Hell.

I'm giving away four signed copies of What's Left of Kisses, a collection of historical novellas to four randomly selected commenters. It's going to be tricky to get these to anybody (even in the States) before Christmas, so don't count on that!

To be eligible for this drawing, share a memory of your grandparents (or a great-aunt or a great-uncle) -- and if it's a holiday memory, so much the better!

About Me

Josh Lanyon is the author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance.
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list). The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the 20,000+ Goodreads M/M Group. Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist (twice for Gay Mystery), and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.